


to right our rights (and love our wrongs)

by antistar_e (kaikamahine)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Kane Chronicles - Rick Riordan
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaikamahine/pseuds/antistar_e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You could say they've been unlucky in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to right our rights (and love our wrongs)

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from a piece I did a couple years ago, because I woke up one day and realized I needed Sally and Julius to hang out. Can be read here or [@ LJ.](http://veritasrecords.livejournal.com/95569.html)
> 
> Spoilers only through the Last Olympian and the Red Pyramid, respectively.
> 
> Warnings for character death.

-

 

The morning Paul Blofis dies, his wife hears the clink of his wedding ring against the basin of the kitchen sink over the sounds of running water and smiles, because she once reminded him to take his ring off when he's doing dishes, he knows how slippery it gets when his hands are wet, and he remembered. It's still there, afterwards; a solid gold band lying on top of the scrubbing pad in its own little dish. 

It's too big to fit on any finger but her thumb, and she wears it on the same hand she wears her own wedding ring. The metals don't match: Paul attempted to apologize once, having tried four different pawn shops in Lower Manhattan and unable to find anything to match his grandmother's diamond ring that now sits on the ring finger of her left hand, but he only got half-way through his stammered explanation before she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him quiet, too full of feeling to articulate.

A month later, the police come by, and she sits on her couch with her head down, twisting the ring on her thumb around and around, as they tell her they caught the guy who did it, forensic evidence and signed confession and everything.

They give her a name, but she lets it go in one ear and out the other. She doesn't go to the trial.

 

*

 

She's been growing her hair out again, long, girlish strands that clog the shower drain and catch in the ties of her work apron. It's more grey than brown now, thinning on top to show a scalp as freckled as her face, dots of color starting to coalesce into age spots.

It's three months and twelve days, give or take, since Paul never came back from a quick run down to the deli for some provolone to go with a Sunday brunch sandwich, and Sally starts to worry. She dithers in CVS, picking up one box and putting it down, cross-checking different brands, pulling at the tail of her braid. She picks up a box of green tea and some mailing envelopes, so it doesn't look like it's the only thing she came in here to buy, feeling ridiculous and exactly as she had at eighteen, the last time she did this.

She leaves it sitting on the bathroom sink while she waits for the result, going into the kitchen so that she doesn't give into the urge to stare at it. She pops the bag out of her tea and into the trash, pauses with the rim to her lips, and then checks the back of the box -- it has caffeine in it, and she upends the whole thing into the sink. You shouldn't drink caffeine while pregnant, she remembers from the depths of that part of her brain that stores facts like that.

It would just be her luck, she thinks, clutching the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles go white, that she should love a man, and lose him, and feel a baby grow underneath her heart while her eyes are still sore from grief.

She's thinking of names, and if she's too old, and of what parts of Paul she'll see every day as the child grows up, and whether she's making enough to start another college fund, and if Percy will mind if she turns his old room back into a nursery, when she goes back into the bathroom and looks.

It's negative.

It's just stress, then, that's making her miss periods, and she stares at the "not pregnant" there in the little window, and stares at it.

When she sits down on the toilet seat, she's crying so hard she can't breathe, disappointment crushing up underneath her heart, tin-can fragile, and she grieves and grieves and grieves for that life she was never going to get, the chance she was never going to have.

She'd been thinking Charlotte, for a girl. Paul was always more fond of the Bronte sisters than he let on.

 

*

 

"I don't think you should be alone right now, Mom," Percy goes from the bathroom doorway, as she's putting things into a toiletry bag: it's the same bag she's had since he was a child, the plastic beginning to peel away in the corner.

She catches his eye in the mirror. Behind him, she can hear Mal arguing with Annabeth, insisting that he didn't want to wear mittens, they were dumb and he couldn't do anything with them, and Annabeth refusing to argue back, stating instead, _you are going to wear them, because it's cold out and because I'm your mother and I said so,_ so calmly and inexorably that she was probably wrestling them onto him as she was saying it.

"I want to, Percy," she says, slipping past him and back into her bedroom. She zips the toiletry bag into the front pocket of her suitcase, and sits down on the edge of her bed.

Percy's followed her, arms folded over his chest. She meets his eyes and smiles. "It's something we wanted to do together since before we got married."

On the way out the door, she bends to kiss her grandson's head. He waggles his mittens in her face. She holds out her hands to show that she's wearing them, too, and Mal nods solemn approval.

 

*

 

It's raining when the plane lands at Heathrow.

 

*

 

There's a man standing on the bridge overlooking the Thames, elbows on the railing. Sally alternates sipping at her Irish whisky, watching the traffic flow on the wrong side of the street, listening to accents she's only heard in tourist traps and the BBC they sometimes get when the cable gets crossed with the lady downstairs, and looking back at the man.

He's really kind of an unremarkable-looking person, no matter how many times you glance at him; a black man in a blue cardigan with a trim white beard, no different from any number of people she's seen going back and forth, and yet Sally's attention keeps drifting back to him. Finally, she gets up and pays for her drink, and crosses the street.

When she leans against the stone beside him, he glances at her sideways, considering. He has a look about him that Sally's grown used to from Paul's associates at the university, and she's expecting him to smell of musky books and wax, but instead, he smells like most men do: of soap and whatever he had for lunch, which included mustard, if the spot on his sleeve is anything to go by.

"Do you live on the east side of the river, or the west?" he asks her after a beat, and she's surprised at the light accent to his voice, eastern seaboard American. What are the chances.

"The east," she answers in the same accent, and smiles when his eyebrows twitch up in recognition. "If you could call the Hudson much of a river."

"My family lives on the east side," he answers, and gestures with a jerk of his head. "Over there. And I'm here on the west, for a time."

Sally tilts her head. "And that's bad?"

The corners of his mouth curl, a brief flash of an almost-smile, like he's enjoying a private joke. "It's a little grave," he admits. He folds his hands on the stone, and the cuffs of his shirt ride up enough that she catches a glimpse of a different set of cuffs around his wrists, broad and brass and looking almost like manacles.

Catching the direction of her gaze, he tugs his sleeves down again, not hurried enough to be secretive. "I'm Julius Kane," he offers instead, and he's got eyes the color of sand. She imagines his name in bold white, newsprint script, with a backdrop of desert dunes, and can't imagine why. 

She hesitates, but only for a moment. "Sally Jackson," she answers, and her maiden name is old and familiar on her tongue, a little dusty. She pulls her sweater tighter around herself. "What brings you here?"

Another gesture. "Cleopatra's Needle," he goes, voice going low like someone might say, _that's the tomb of the Unknown Soldier._ And suddenly, Sally places his name: the cover of the Egyptology books, all desert backgrounds and blinding white letters, in the library where Paul repaired books with hands that always smelled faintly of library paste.

"You're an author," she says, absolutely certain.

He nods. "An archaeologist."

"Even worse," she quips, unthinking.

But he laughs, loud like it startled him. "And what are you, then?" he goes, almost teasing, his flat eyes bright. Those eyes are more African-Arab than they let on, and she mentally revises -- he might actually be from that area of the world.

It doesn't even occur to her to be dishonest. There are any number of answers -- an employee of a candy shop, right now a traveler -- but what comes out of her mouth is, in her opinion, her most important identity, "I'm the mother of a demigod."

A blink is the only sign she gets that what she said is odd, because then he's smiling, and answering in the same tone, "And I'm the father of a pharaoh."

He takes her hand then, and kisses the back of it. Sally smiles, and believes him.

 

*

 

Later, they both know how they came to be a widow and a widower, and Julius asks her, "So what brings you to England?"

She laughs at the sky, gunmetal grey and cold. "I'm on my way to Cantebury," she tells him, all warmth, and pauses only a moment before she asks, "Would you like to come with me? It's more a journey for two."

 

 

-  
fin


End file.
